


Forget-me-not

by Intangible_Insanity



Series: Remembrance [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Flowers, Gen, How Do I Tag, Ignore this, Memories, Mentioned America (Hetalia), Mentioned England (Hetalia), Mentioned France (Hetalia), Mentioned Germany (Hetalia), Mentioned Prussia (Hetalia), World War I, poppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 23:43:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12692610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Intangible_Insanity/pseuds/Intangible_Insanity
Summary: With the known who have been forgotten, there were the equally forgotten soldiers, their remains unclaimed and names lost — unknown soldiers.





	Forget-me-not

**Author's Note:**

> Just a re-post from FF.net. Originally a scrap written for the WWI centennial back in 2014.

His heart felt heavy as he wandered into the green field's gated perimeter, as heavy as the looming overcast skies with their daunting impassive grey that didn't let the sun through and blotted out the blue vastness of the sky.

  
Matthew strayed onto the grass, soft and muffled underfoot as he headed towards the neatly arranged rows of white stone, mostly bare with errant flowers and plants accompanying the desolate graves and faded mementos of the past. On almost every stone there was a name, a rank and unit, a date, a maple leaf splayed proudly on the worn surface.

  
With the known who have been forgotten, there were the equally forgotten soldiers, their remains unclaimed and names lost — unknown soldiers.

  
It was quiet, the country road behind him was empty with the cemetery and the acres of rolling French fields, dotted with trees. It was only the sky and earth, the verdant of the sea of grass against the grimness of the sky, the silent graves and Matthew with Kumajirou at his feet.

  
The nation didn't know what to feel, only that melancholic feeling spreading and radiating from him in feverish waves since he left Papa's house in the early morning. His violet-blue eyes were burning as he scanned the names as the cool breeze, tinged with the awaiting chill of winter touched his cheeks and swept back his wavy flaxen locks.

  
Matthew willed himself not to cry right then and there as the memories, tarnished and weary, emerged from their placid box in his mind, searing and so vividly fresh as he waded through waist-deep mud, choking and gargling as his lungs erupted in flames, fighting up hills and past zipping bullets to snarl at enemy soldiers. The electric connection as he met the steely, calculating, wintry blue eyes of Germany framed by rigidly slicked platinum locks across the battlefield among the throng of soldiers and when he tangled with the demonic red glee of Prussia in his innate military might.

  
A sigh, leaden and thick, blew past his chapped lips as he lay down a bouquet of delicate blue forget-me-nots in front of the Cross of Sacrifice with a tearful smile. He knew them, probably served alongside many of these young soldiers who perished in the nightmarish trenches and the horror of no man's land, or in a bloodied gurney, screaming, disfigured and deformed.

  
Matthew ached. He bit down on his trembling lip and pushed his glasses up onto his head, lest they got smudged, closing his eyes and felt a warm tear slip down his cheek.

  
It is the hundredth year since it began and there was no one left to tell their story.

  
But he hasn't forgotten nor have the others, recalling the gentle knowing smile on Papa's lips as he pressed a stubbly kiss on Matthew's cheek.

  
He cleared his throat, feeling his voice already shrinking. "Hey, it's been a while, eh?"

  
His pale lashes fluttered, clinging to each other as he blinked his tears away. You defined me, you proved my worth as a nation. You are my lost children and my valiant soldiers. Thank you, I am so proud of you. And I will never forget.

  
In the onslaught of bullets, mortar and gas, there was Arthur's proud glittering emerald eyes as he mounted Vimy Ridge, his Papa's thin form enveloping him with a sob of garbled French, the sheepish grin and heavy arm of Alfred over his shoulders as he said, "So bro, I guess you won't have to fight this alone after all."

  
The tugging on his shoelaces and pawing at his legs brought the nation's attention to the fuzzy blob of white at his feet. Finding his knees a little weak, Matthew sunk onto the grass beside the weathered cross and Kuma, scrubbing his face free of tears, slipping his glasses back on.  
"Yes, Kuma?"

  
The little polar bear cocked his head at the rows and rows of white stones and asked, "Who are they?"

  
His heart jumped a little at the question but the little bear was asking 'who' all the time, he shouldn't be surprised. He smiled down at Kuma, reaching out to adjust the patterned knit headband on the bear's head, poppies pinned meticulously on the lavender and white wool. He had gone to different locations to collect them, slyly slipping twenties alongside fives and tens underneath his fingertips.

  
This day was important to him.

  
It was a day of reflection of his soldiers, the wars he had fought in and the people affected by the conflicts. It was a day of remembrance, even if he were to be overlooked, they couldn't deny the men and women who gave their lives for what they believed in. And the ones who returned with the scars so great, visible and tangible or invisible and still screaming with the deeds of war. They will not be forgotten.

  
So Matthew sighed and stroked Kuma's plush fur, a sad smile flitting on his lips as he threaded with a delicate pale blue blossom beside the blood red poppy,

"They're soldiers, from long ago and yet so bright and so young..."


End file.
